


The Broken House

by Scylla87



Series: Scofield Family Feels [2]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Angst, Family Dynamics, Gen, Starting Over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 09:07:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17261462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scylla87/pseuds/Scylla87
Summary: Forced to move halfway across the country, away from his home and his friends, to live in a creaky old house with his mom and the man who looks like his dad, Mike decides that the only way is to runaway. He almost makes it before he remembers that he forgot to pack food for his life on the run and is diverted by the smells coming from the kitchen.





	The Broken House

**Author's Note:**

> This is just a random, very angst filled story idea that I had. I have been wanting to explore the relationship between Michael and Mike for some time now, and this is kind of my second story in that vein. I imagine that this one takes place before the first one when they have just relocated and everything is very new. I'm thinking of doing similar stories like this that are a little less angsty. We'll see how that goes.

The Broken House:

Mike looked out of the crack in the door and scanned the hallway for movement. He couldn’t see Mom anywhere or worse, him, so he slipped out of the room and eased the door closed behind him. If he left it open someone might come looking for him, and it was important that they not realize he was gone yet. He readjusted the backpack on his shoulders and tentatively crept down the hall toward the stairs.

 

It was harder to creep in this new house than it had been in the old one. He remembered how easy it had been to get up early in the morning and go downstairs to make Mom breakfast on the special days, like Mother’s Day or her birthday. She had never even known he was awake until he brought her the tray. The carpet in the hallway and on the stairs had always helped mask his steps though. Here, instead of the carpet that had always tickled a little as he walked, there was cold wood that numbed his toes and made it hard to walk lightly. And everything in the new house creaked. It sounded more like an old house than a new one. Mom kept saying they were going to fix this new place, make it less creaky and repair all the broken things. She seemed so excited when she talked about it, but he didn’t understand why they couldn’t just stay in the old house if this one needed so much work. He would never understand adult reasoning. They had had a perfectly nice house where they had always lived and been happy, and where nothing was broken and loud, and they had left it to move far away to this broken house. She said they would be happy here, but he knew better.

 

Mike blamed him for this. He was the reason why they had had to move. Mom hadn’t wanted to move, Mike was sure of it. But because of him, Mike had to leave his school and his friends and his soccer team to move to this new place in Chicago. The only good thing was going to be getting to see Uncle Lincoln more, but even that wasn’t enough to make Mike happy here. He just wanted to go back home, to his real room, to the house without all the boxes piled around and the creaky stairs, but Mom kept saying this was their home now instead of leaving like they should. If he wants to live here, he can stay, but Mike didn’t want to. And he wasn’t going to.

 

Mom would be upset when she realized that he had gone back to New York, but he couldn’t spend another night in that room they kept telling him was his. That was not his bedroom, and he would have to run away if he ever wanted to sleep in his real room again. Mom would understand one day. Maybe she would even come with him when she realized the truth, that life was better in their real house. At least at the old house all the bathrooms worked and there weren’t places where the floor was rotten. And more importantly, He hadn’t been at the old house. Everything had been better before him. Mom couldn’t see that, but she would one day. He was a bad man, who would hurt them. Why didn’t Mom and Uncle Lincoln see that?

 

Carefully, Mike placed a foot onto the top stair. It groaned beneath him and made him wince. Everything was so noisy here. If he could just get down the stairs without waking them up, everything would be fine, but getting down the stairs wasn't going to be easy. He stepped onto the next stair and the next, each time holding his breath as the old stairs announced his decent. There were other noises in the house as he crept away, a banging sound from the kitchen. It made him freeze where he was. The new house was always making weird noises, but he was afraid that this one wasn’t the house. Even more carefully he eased further down the stairs, where he would have a view of the room beyond without being seen.

 

He stopped just above the bottom of the stairs and squatted down to see through the open doorway. The smell of food wafted up to him, and he realized how foolish he had been to think that he could escape before anyone else was up. The man who looked like Dad was down there, standing at the stove. Mike wanted to hide, but if he wasn’t aware of his presence already, he would be if Mike moved, no matter how quiet he was. The man noticed things in a way that was eerie. Mike wondered how he was supposed to get to the front door now. Even the smallest noise caught Not Dad's attention, and it was difficult to sneak by him. If it had been Mom down there, Mike could have made it out easily, but Not Dad paid too much attention, even when you thought he wasn’t.

 

Mike was forced to sit and watch him, frozen to his spot on the stairs. Not Dad was making breakfast. The whole kitchen was a mess around him, flour and egg shells scattered on the counters. Mom was going to be so mad when she saw. Surely the same rules about cleaning up your messes applied in the new kitchen too, but apparently he didn’t know about the rules. He had just left his mess everywhere like it didn’t matter at all. The food smelled good though, faintly like blueberries. Mike surveyed the mess again and put the pieces together. Blueberry pancakes. Apparently the rule about the messes wasn’t the only one Not Dad didn’t know.

 

It was further proof that the adults were wrong about this one. No matter how much he looked like Dad, he couldn’t be. His real dad would have known about the pancakes, known not to make them when Uncle Lincoln was in the house. Mike didn’t have a brother, but he was pretty sure that brothers would know things about each other, like that blueberry pancakes upset them. Even Mike knew that even if he didn’t know why. His real dad would have known why though, he was sure of it. And he never would have made the pancakes. They smelled good though, and Mike’s stomach rumbled like a traitor. He hadn’t realized that he was hungry until then. He hadn’t even considered how he was going to eat on the run. How could he have forgotten about food? He eyed the pancakes Not Dad was putting on a plate. No, he couldn’t betray his uncle like that, no matter how hungry he was.

 

Not Dad set the plate on the counter and poured more batter into the skillet. Mike’s stomach rumbled again. Maybe just one pancake before he left. Surely Uncle Lincoln would understand that he needed to eat. He eased the backpack off his shoulders and crept toward the kitchen. If he was extra careful, he might be able to sneak by Not Dad while he was busy. He placed his foot cautiously as he slipped into the kitchen and headed for the plate on the counter. His hands had just reached out to grab it when Not Dad spoke. “There’s butter and syrup in the bag.”

 

Mike froze with his arms out stretched and looked at the man out of the corner of his eye. His back was still to the rest of the room as he cooked. Mike was sure he hadn’t even had to turn to look at him to know Mike was there. “Spooky,” he muttered to himself.

 

Not Dad didn’t respond as Mike dug through the sack on the counter and pulled out the aforementioned items. He couldn’t help but comment. “Plastic bags are against the rules,” he added as the bag rustled.

 

“The reusable ones are all packed.”

 

Mike wanted to remind him that that was his fault, but he knew Mom would be upset if he did so he said nothing. Instead he pulled open the butter tube and paused. No knife. He opened his mouth to ask for one but there was one already being held out to him. Not Dad was standing close enough that he could just reach out and take it from him. “Thank you,” he murmured, because Mom would have wanted him to.

 

Not Dad just nodded and kept his focus on the food while Mike put butter and syrup on his pancakes. He didn’t speak again until Mike went to take his plate away. “Sara says that you aren’t allowed to eat in your room.”

 

Sara. The use of Mom’s name made Mike grit his teeth. Who was Not Dad to use her name like that? Only adults she knew and liked called her that, not strangers who forced them to move a thousand miles from their home and destroyed the kitchen and made the wrong pancakes and used plastic bags instead of the reusable ones. If he could break all those rules on their first morning in the new house, why couldn’t Mike break the eating rule? He didn’t want to have to eat in the same room with Not Dad and glanced at his pancakes, considering leaving them behind. His stomach rumbled again, so he took a seat at the counter despite what he wanted. Not Dad didn’t comment on the development.

 

Mike took a bite of the forbidden pancakes and chewed carefully. He hated that they were better than Mom’s. She had never managed to get hers even half as fluffy, and he knew he should refuse to eat them then. It was bad enough they were blueberry; better than Mom’s was too far. He was too hungry to stop himself though. Luckily, Not Dad didn’t try to talk to him or anything. He was always afraid that would happen when they were left alone together, something easier to avoid at the old house where Not Dad rarely came. The memory of those days made Mike sad. Mom had started packing up their house as soon as this stranger had come back, hadn’t even asked what Mike wanted. Now he was in a strange kitchen, eating pancakes made by this stranger. “You aren’t supposed to make blueberry ones,” he informed the man suddenly. “No blueberry pancakes when Uncle Lincoln is around. It’s a rule.”

 

Not Dad glanced at him over his shoulder almost sadly. “You’re right. I should have considered that Linc wouldn’t want any.” But he continued to make them anyway. “I just hadn’t had them in a long time.”

 

Mike watched him as he chewed carefully. The man had used the nickname Mom used for his uncle sometimes. Had she told him to call Uncle Lincoln that? He didn’t like that, her telling this stranger secrets about their family. Had she told him other things? He didn't like the thought of that. “Mom won’t tell me why he doesn’t like them,” he said.

 

The man nodded. “You’re too young to understand.” He spoke like he knew something about the pancakes that Mike didn’t.

 

“How can you like blueberry pancakes if Uncle Lincoln doesn’t? Brothers are supposed to like the same things,” he told the stranger certainly.

 

“Not always. Brothers come out different as often as they come out the same.” There was a long pause as the man put the next batch of pancakes onto a plate. “And Lincoln doesn’t hate blueberry pancakes. They just bring back complicated memories for him. He used to make them for LJ when he was a boy. Used to make them for me too.”

 

“LJ is my cousin,” Mike informed the man.

 

Not Dad laughed as he brought his plate over to the counter to get butter and syrup. Mike watched him walk, noticing that there was something off about the way he moved. It wasn’t a completely normal walk, more of a shuffle than a stride. Mike glanced down at his feet and noticed that they looked wrong. One foot, the left one, was missing two toes, and the right one wasn’t shaped the same, some of the bones obviously not correct anymore. Mike stared at them even though he knew that it was rude. Did Mom know that he had broken feet? She never mentioned that Dad did. Surely if she saw this she would know that this man was an imposture. He tore his eyes away at last and found that the man had noticed where his eyes had been. “What happened to your feet?” he asked. Mom always said it was rude to ask questions like that of strangers, but the man had already seen him staring.

 

The question seemed to bother him, like he didn’t know the answer or something. “One of them I broke, and it didn’t heal properly. Sara says it’ll have to be rebroken to put the bones back the way they are supposed to be. The other, well, it’s complicated,” he finally said.

 

Mike frowned at the information. “How did Mom not realize you’re fake if she saw your feet?” he asked without thinking.

 

Not Dad raised his eyebrows in surprise. “How do you know that I am fake?” he asked instead of yelling.

 

“My dad’s feet weren’t broken like that.”

 

“True,” the man said, “and false. It’s complicated.” There was a long moment before Not Dad went on. “I know that all of this is hard for you. Maybe it would have been easier if we had stayed in New York, but I thought it might help to get a fresh start.”

 

“We can go back, Mom and me. We don’t need a fresh start.”

 

“Michael!” Mom said from the kitchen doorway. She was talking to him, but the man who looked like Dad turned to look at her too. “Apologize,” she said.

 

“It’s fine Sara,” the man said.

 

“It is not fine,” Mom said, walking into the room. She held his backpack down by her side. “What did we talk about?” she asked, turning from Not Dad to look at him sternly.

 

“You said he was Dad, but those are lies. Didn’t you see his feet? He doesn’t even have all his toes.” He said the last bit in a whisper and looked at her seriously, hoping she would understand what he was saying.

 

The way she scowled told him she did. “Neither did your father,” she said with a sigh.

 

Mike shook his head. “You only say that now because of him.” He eased off the stool and went to grab his bag from her. “I’m leaving,” he said firmly when she pulled the bag out of reach.

 

“And go where? The only person you know in Chicago is asleep down the hall.”

 

He sighed and made to grab the bag again. “Home,” he told her. “We need to go home before he hurts us. Jacob said he was a bad man who wanted to hurt us.”

 

Mom’s face hardened. “Please go to your room,” she said in her warning voice. “I will be up to talk to you in a minute.”

 

He hated that he was the one in trouble for simply stating facts but knew that he needed to obey anytime Mom talked like that. Once more he reached for the bag, and this time she let him have it. His steps were loud as he made his way back to the room they kept claiming was his, not even caring if he accidently woke up Uncle Lincoln in the process. It was so unfair that he was being made to stay in this horrible place and that no one would listen to him about the man that looked like Dad.

 

It was a long minute before Mom came into his room and shut the door. “Michael,” she said warily, “we’ve discussed this. You can’t be rude to your father.”

 

He glared at her but said nothing. She knew what she was saying were lies and refused to listen when he pointed them out. “I know that it is hard for you to understand, but Jacob was a bad man. Remember, he took you and told you I was dead.”

 

“To protect me,” Mike insisted.

 

Mom came and sat next to him on the bed. “No, not to protect you. He was going to hurt you, hurt me, because he knew it would hurt your dad. He wanted to do bad things to us, because he was a bad person. I should have realized. This is all my fault.” Mike shook his head violently. No, she couldn’t blame herself for the man’s mistakes. “Yes,” she said firmly. “I shouldn’t have let my guard down with him. If he had hurt you, I never would have been able to forgive myself.” She reached out and ran a hand through his hair. “I know that it is hard for you, all this change, but I need you to trust me, trust your uncle. We have ways of recognizing your father that goes beyond just the way he looks. I promise you, that is Michael.”

 

He glared at the wall as she spoke. She couldn’t really believe all that. “And if he’s lying? He didn’t even know about the pancakes.”

 

“It’s not that he didn’t know, he just didn’t think about it.” Mom sighed heavily. “You remember that stuffed bear you used to have, the one that you carried everywhere?” Mike nodded despite himself. “Well, when it was time to go to school you wanted to take him with you because he reminded you of home. Even if you didn’t know that was why, you wanted your bear because he made you feel safe, like you were back home with me. Blueberry pancakes are a little like that with your dad. He used to eat them when he was gone, when he could, because they reminded him of Lincoln, reminded him why he had to leave, to protect us. He told me to tell you that he’s sorry if he upset you by making them.”

 

“Uncle Lincoln is the one who will be upset,” Mike reminded her.

 

“No he won’t,” she said. “He’s downstairs eating some now. Claiming his are better. Brothers,” she added with a laugh.

 

Mike shook his head. “That’s not true,” he said. “Uncle Lincoln doesn’t like blueberry pancakes.”

 

“Because they remind him of something horrible that happened once, something he only escaped because of a little brother that, as far as he knew, he had lost. But your dad is back now. It’s hard to explain.”

 

“Adults are strange,” he commented.

 

“We are strange,” Mom told him. “We are very strange indeed. Now, why don’t you come downstairs and finish your breakfast?”

 

“Then we can go home?” he asked hopefully.

 

Mom turned to him sadly and said, “Oh Mikey, we are home.” He had been afraid she would say that.

 

"I don't think I'm hungry anymore," he told her. His stomach rumbled traitorously as he spoke.

 

Mom sighed heavily and rose from the bed. "If you say so," she said as she left.

 

It was not very Mom like behavior. Mike added it to his list of things that were wrong about this house. He glared down at the bag sitting on the bed beside him. There was no hope of escaping now all the adults were up, but he knew that he'd have to find a way to get away. He couldn't stay here with him in the broken house, no matter how good his pancakes were.


End file.
